


Seven Signs

by relucant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demons, Hogwarts, Horcruxes, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/pseuds/relucant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then you'll help me," he said, trying to pitch his voice to his usual confident timbre.</p><p>"I might," Crowley agreed.  "You'd be a rare prize."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Signs

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS:
> 
> \- this was absolutely just a one-line joke thrown out while chatting and never meant to be a Thing. then... the Thing happened. please don't hate me.
> 
> \- I've never written Crowley or Tom Riddle/Voldemort before (or anything but Destiel/Sabriel, really), and I'm an American -- I tried to get their voices right, but feel free to give any pointers!
> 
> \- there will almost certainly be no Winchesters or Golden Trio in here, 'cause time travel is too deus ex machina for the purposes of this fic. sorry. :( there may be some Castiel!
> 
> \- ...what have I done with my life.

"Tom? Is that you again?" Madam Pince was standing at the end of the aisle, feather duster in one hand and the other planted firmly on her hip. She was frowning, but a fondness remained in her pretty brown eyes.

Tom closed his eyes in frustration for a moment, then put on his best guilty smile.

"I'm sorry, Madam Pince," he said sheepishly. "Only I'm taking my O.W.Ls next year, and I want to get ahead…"

"This is the fourth time you've been in the Restricted Section this month," she said sternly. "And that's only that I know of. Why don't you ask Professor Dumbledore for special permission?"

"I did," he said, unable to keep a note of sullenness from his voice. "Said there was no reason for anybody to be in here before they've passed their O.W.Ls."

"Hmph," she said. "And you've worked so hard." There was a spark of indignation on his behalf in her voice, and his usual indifference towards the young librarian was momentarily tinged with warmth.

"I've read _all_ the other Defense Against the Dark Arts books in the whole library," he said, allowing a pleading whine to slip into his tone. "And it's Christmas break, the dungeon is so _lonely_. Please, Madam Pince, just another half hour?"

She looked at him with pursed lips, then sighed. "Half an hour only, Tom, then you _must_ see about acquiring permission. I can't keep catching you in here."

"You won't," he promised, giving her his brightest smile. As soon as she had turned the corner, he muttered, "...catch me."

By the time the snow had begun to melt, and after a few more slightly more careful late-night library visits, he had the ingredients that he'd been looking for, secreted in a small leather cache under his bed. The bone of a black cat had been easy enough, having traded a week's worth of Potions homework for the leg bone of Adrian Avery's dead kitten, produced from a rather macabre shoebox of items ("Just 'cause I miss her don't mean she's not still dead useful," he'd said with a shrug). The graveyard dirt had proved more difficult, each library session ending in increasing frustration, but as it turned out, a decaying old edition of _Hogwarts, A History_ provided what endless tomes of dark magic did not: the mention of a tiny graveyard tucked away at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, marked only by six nameless stones.

The last item had been the easiest to produce and the hardest to part with. It was one of the only photographs of himself in existence, taken just the last fall: he was holding court in the common room, giving an impromptu lecture on the storied history of Slytherin House, with a gaggle of first-years crowded around him on the floor, gazing up at him adoringly. The firelight cast his face in flattering shadows, and his gestures commanded an aura of serene power.

Tom looked at the photograph one more time, then sighed and tossed it back into the bundle, tying it neatly with a bit of string.

The morning of the first Hogsmeade trip of the new year dawned bright and cold. Tom was up and dressed before any of his bunkmates had awoken, double and triple-checking the small package stowed in his robes.

One by one the rest of them began to stir, rubbing their eyes with sleepy excitement.

"I don't know why all the Houses go together," Vincent Lestrange grumbled, pulling on his robes. "We've got to spend enough time with all those Mudbloods as it is."

Pegasus Black shifted uncomfortably at the slur, but let it go. "I don't know, I wouldn't mind nipping off for a butterbeer with McGonagall, she's got rather attractive this year…"

"She'd eat you alive, Peggy," drawled Avery.

" _Don't_ call me that."

Tom ignored their bickering, concentrating on the weight of the package, equal parts comforting and terrifying.

Eventually they got through breakfast, the Great Hall full of anticipatory chatter and sullen first and second-years. Pringle ruthlessly checked each student against his list of names, scowling, no doubt in disapproval at the prospect of students enjoying themselves.

"Ahh, the taste of freedom," Black said, his breath coming out in little puffs in the cold air. "This _is_ the life. Shall we see what's good at Honeydukes this year?"

The others made vague sounds of assent, but Tom paused.

"You all go ahead," he said. "I've promised I'd meet someone at the Hog's Head."

"Oh, I'll join you," said Lestrange. "Maybe by now they'll serve me firewhiskey."

"You -- no, you don't want to," Tom said hastily. He racked his brain. "It's -- I'm meeting Hepzibah Smith," he invented. "Crazy old bat, but you know she's taken a fancy to me. And with her money and influence, I'll endure her attentions."

"Don't envy you, mate," said Black with a dramatic shudder. "We'll meet up with you later?"

Tom gave a curt nod, then turned, striding back in the direction of the Hog's Head.

He waited until there was no one nearby, then slipped off the main road, following the small path that he'd memorized. After about fifteen minutes of trudging through the scattered snow, one hand clutching his robes against the chill and the other pressed against the parcel, he came upon a small crossroads, with a decaying signpost pointing north towards Hogsmeade and west towards a town he'd never heard of.

He scanned the ground, eyes landing on a thick broken stick. He grabbed it, then before he could hesitate he strode up to the signpost and began to dig.

After ten minutes or so, he sat back, wiping the cold sweat off his brow. There was a hole about six inches deep and a foot wide dug into the half-frozen earth, and Tom took out the package, measuring it with his eyes.

Finally he bit his lip and dropped the thing into the hole, shoveling the displaced dirt back over it, then got to his feet, brushing off his hands.

He stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, fidgeting and feeling increasingly foolish.

"Knew it wasn't real," he muttered eventually. " _Demons_. Good joke on me." He dropped to his knees to begin retrieving his supplies.

"Bit young for making Crossroads deals, aren't we?" came a deep Scottish drawl behind him. He tried to spin around but ended up overbalancing, sprawling on his back in the dirt. "Not to say that I'm not impressed."

"Y-you're a demon?" he said, heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the creature, a tallish man with dark hair and dark stubble, and dressed impeccably in a dark suit. "You don't _look_ like a demon…"

"Well. I don't know if I should be insulted or flattered," he said without looking up, cleaning his nails with a small blade.

Tom gathered his self-possession, standing up. "Are you a demon, then?" he challenged, letting imperious command ring in his voice. "Tell the truth!"

The man did look up at last, but only to raise an eyebrow with a faintly amused smile.

"Are we done with our posturing, then?" he asked.

"Who -- who are you?"

"Crowley, King of the Crossroads, at your service," he said with a mock bow. "Though you would do well to remember that I am not, in fact, actually at your service, at all."

Tom stared at him, swallowing hard. The demon sighed, flicking his knife closed.

"Tom Riddle, I presume?" he said, putting the blade away, and Tom nodded. "Master Riddle, I am not in the habit of making deals with children.

"I'm not a _child_ ," Tom spat. "I _summoned_ you."

"On the contrary," Crowley said. "You may be a rather… unusual child, but you are still a child."

"I'm not," Tom said, but even he could hear the petulance in his voice. "Anyway, you're a _demon_. You can't have some sort of, of -- moral code."

"Why not?"

"You -- you just -- you _can't_ ," he blurted.

Crowley sighed again. "Master Riddle, I think you'll find the world is not cast in black and white, good and evil, powerful and weak. And yes, that applies to demons. There are many who would have no qualms taking the soul of a thirteen-year-old boy. Which is why I chose to answer your summons myself."

"So you could pity me?" Tom bit out, anger coiling in his belly. "Don't take the soul of the poor orphan boy?"

"Oh, I fully intend on taking it," Crowley said amiably. "Anticipate it, even. But I find... taking the soul of someone not old enough to know what they're offering -- especially one so brilliant, so _lush_ as yours…" He paused, then gave an exaggerated moue of distaste. "So… _tacky_." They stared at each other, Tom's face pinched in frustration and Crowley's open and amused. "So what is it that you, with your thirteen-year-old problems, wish in exchange for his soul?"

"I want pure blood," he said immediately. "I don't want the blood of my -- my useless, deadbeat, _Muggle_ father. I want to be a wizard."

Crowley blinked in surprise, the only tiny crack in his unflappable calm he'd shown. "Your father. So we share that, you and me," he said slowly. His eyes drifted up and down his skinny body, and Tom felt an unfamiliar heat in his cheeks.

"Then you'll help me," he said, trying to pitch his voice to his usual confident timbre.

"I might," Crowley agreed. "You'd be a rare prize. But if you managed to summon me here, I imagine you know the rules. Ten years, Tom Riddle, half of which would be spent in school. All for having pure blood, for a few years?"

"I'd find a way," Tom said, throwing his head back. "If I can summon _you_ at thirteen, even with my dirty blood, I could find a way out of it."

Crowley considered him, and Tom bit his lip, willing himself to maintain eye contact. "Perhaps," he said at last. "Perhaps you could."

"Then you'll do it?" Tom said, unwillingly eager.

Crowley stared at his face, eyes narrowed.

"No," he said at last. "I meant what I said. I do not deal with children."

He turned away, and without thinking Tom crossed over to him, seizing his wrist.

"I am _not_ a child," he hissed. "I want this."

Instead of shoving him away, or worse, as Tom half-expected, Crowley only turned his hand over, until his fingers locked over his as well.

"If you are not a child," he said, in measured tones, "and you want this, then you can wait for it." He stroked his thumb over Tom's wrist, and something electric curled into his stomach. "I will not steal a kiss from a child for their soul."

"I wouldn't mind," Tom said in a strangled voice, then flushed deeply.

Crowley's eyes flashed once. "Call me when you are of age," he said. "You know my name."

**Author's Note:**

> comments/feedback always welcome!
> 
> find me on Tumblr at [relucant](http://relucant.tumblr.com). I'm nice.


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